


Scars You Can See

by Juzosuke-Ishimondo (Aster_Nightingale)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I'm projecting onto him leave me alone, Implied/Referenced Bullying, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27502687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aster_Nightingale/pseuds/Juzosuke-Ishimondo
Summary: He wishes someone would punch him, just once.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	Scars You Can See

**Author's Note:**

> Idk. Just starting thinking about some stuff today. Projecting some thoughts I had onto a line in the game. Idk. I'm tired. Sorry.

Sometimes he wished someone would just hit him. He wished so badly someone would hate him enough to punch him, hurt him, maim him. Something, anything, would do. He wanted someone to sock him in the jaw for the slightest mistake. He wanted to be slapped when he got the problem wrong. Anything, anything but the silence that came with that look that screamed "you're not good enough". 

He taped a mirror to a punching bag one day. Makoto, a really kind boy in his class, gave him some boxing gloves. They were nice. He was nice. He wasn't sure what to say or if he deserved them. "Th-thank you, but I really cannot-" 

"Don't be silly, Ishimaru! It's a late birthday gift!" 

Oh right, his birthday. When was the last time he celebrated that? His grandfather would've still been prime minister or maybe when his mother was still alive. Maybe it was the last time his father was able to take a day off because the savings were still there and his mother was able to work. Either way, it had been longer than he could be bothered to remember. "I see. Thank you, Naegi." 

He looked in the mirror. He was never proud of his looks but sometimes people complimented him. Sometimes people said he looked just like a doll. He looked most like his father with his facial features being almost a mirror of him though his jawline and eye color came from his mother. He hated looking at it. 

He punched the bag avoiding the mirror. He was strong from his daily routine, but he wasn't as strong as Mondo or Sakura...definitely not stronger than Sakura, he didn't and wouldn't compare himself to her in that department considering how much she trained and for how long. He punches the bag again. He was told this was supposed to be cathartic, but so far, he doesn't feel anything. 

How was he supposed to feel, anyway. He was always working. Always, always, always working until his fingers bled, the muscles in his hands ached, and it felt like his bones would break if he unclenched them. That wasn't the painful part though, on no. That was the easy part of his life. 

The eyes of Japan were on his back ever since those horrible days of the scandal. He could feel them. They never looked away. They were always watching, judging, waiting for him to make a mistake, waiting to brand him a mistake like his grandfather. He did everything he could to appease them. He worked tirelessly, he gave up pieces of himself so others could feel whole, he did everything he could for his family, he gave up a social life to keep working, he gave up his worthless hobbies to keep working even harder, but it still wasn't enough. Nothing he did was enough. 

He punched the bag harder and harder. He didn't hit the mirror yet, but he wanted to. He caught a glimpse of his reflection. There were tears in his eyes. He wasn't ashamed of crying, but he hated it right now. Right now, he wasn't the ultimate prefect, he was just Kiyotaka Ishimaru, and he hated it. He hated this feeling. He hated feeling this vulnerable. He could almost hear the laughter and taunts from his classmates and teachers all over again. That only made him punch the bag harder. 

He never really understood other boys. They were always trying to prove themselves either by hurting others in a show of superiority or themselves on accident. Even after tearing himself open for the convenience of others, he couldn't really understand why someone would want to potentially ruin themselves for a mere moment of validation. Was being a man something he would spend his whole life trying to prove to others? Wasn't it more manly to be unabashedly himself? Well, it was hard for him to be anyone else anyway. When he tried to blend in, it always ended...poorly. Something was always off, and instead of being more like his peers, he was only further locked out of the group and left to watch. He didn't understand it at all. 

Still, they wanted his company sometimes. Usually they sought him out when they failed a test and needed something to vent out their frustrations at. He didn't mind though. If anything, he wished they and others would do that. Hell, he wished his father would sometimes. He wished they would break him apart and watch him crawl through his own blood. He wanted them to tear him to pieces. Anything so people would take his pain seriously for once. Anything other than the comments, the jokes, the names, the staring, the condescending questions, the looks...Something, anything to prove that he had been hurt.

He wasn't entirely oblivious. He saw the looks in their eyes. He was different. They knew he was different, but he had no idea how or why. Sometimes, they only called him names until he cried. Other times, they called him things like worthless, selfish, etc. Occasionally, they ignored him, but rarely did anyone other than a handful of people hit him. Honestly, it was smart on their part. If they didn't leave any marks, how could anyone call it bullying? If he could only cry, didn't that just make him a pathetic little snitch? By hurting him without raising a hand against him, they were able to torment him to their heart's content without worrying about the consequences.

No one ever took the damage of the heart seriously. It was always brushed off by others, and if you spoke about it with someone who had it worse, the guilt of existing would eat you alive. He wasn't stupid. He experienced this a handful of times...Hell, he experienced this with Mondo. He couldn't speak to anyone about it. He was just a weakling, a selfish, stupid, lazy, no-good piece of shit if he couldn't handle it. But he was tired. He was so tired of feeling like this and not being able to confide in anyone. It was tearing him apart, and he wondered one day if he would come undone and ruin everything and be all alone again. 

He hated being alone. Whenever he was alone, his head was...odd. He had dreams and ambitions, but every time he was alone, he didn't care about those. It was like the sun had set over him, and suddenly, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care about anything and only wanted to disappear. The thought first came to his head one day when he walked home from school. 'It wouldn't matter if you just disappeared'. It had stopped him in his tracks. Why, why did this suddenly come to mind? He was the top middle school honor student in Japan. He was getting better at kendo. His father praised him, but it all felt...hollow. It felt like he was living a lie, that soon, everyone would see he really was no better than his grandfather and everything would disappear. It made him rush home and lock himself in his room. Disappearing...if he disappeared, it would make his classmates and teachers happy, and his father wouldn't have to work so much. His father could finally rest like he deserved to, and he wouldn't have to worry about his worthless excuse for a son. He never told his father about these awful thoughts. He didn't want to be a burden, but he wondered what his father would say about them. Would be immediately be appalled and blame himself or would he try to talk to him? He wasn't sure which he would make him cry more. 

He finally punched the mirror and the punching bag fell to the ground. He didn't stop though. He kept punching the mirror over and over again. His own shattered reflection stared up at him when it was over and the shards on the ground reflected red from the punching bag. He ran a hand through his hair and carefully cleaned up the shards. His mind was silent for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please leave a comment or a kudos. Thanks for reading.


End file.
